


i would trade the wealth of ages (for a warmer hand to hold)

by starsinherblood



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, One Shot, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:42:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28296222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsinherblood/pseuds/starsinherblood
Summary: She’s half convinced he’s an elf or a faerie. He’s half convinced she’s a Christmas angel. Either way, they found each other when they each needed someone most, and maybe there’s still some magic in the world after all.
Relationships: Callum & Rayla (The Dragon Prince), Callum/Rayla (The Dragon Prince)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 39





	i would trade the wealth of ages (for a warmer hand to hold)

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be a short little fluffy Christmas special piece to get back into the writing habit before I jump back into The Song That Remains. But uh...that's not exactly how it turned out? It's...pretty sad, fam. Not gonna lie. There's a bit of fluff at the end, though.
> 
> But so help me I DID finish this in time to post it on Christmas Eve.
> 
> Also, I've never written a deaf character before, so if anything is inaccurate or insensitive please let me know!

xXx

_Walk me over this horizon_

_Let the sun’s light warm my face_

_Once again the times again are changing_

_Once again I’ve lost my way_

Rayla knows she shouldn’t have yelled.

She has so many feelings inside it’s overwhelming—which was what had led to her explosion in the first place. Sorrow, grief, anger, fear, loneliness, frustration…and now shame and regret to add to the bunch.

She sniffs and angrily palms her eyes. Why is she _crying_? This isn’t anything to _cry_ about. Just those stupid neighbor kids and their stupid pranks and stupid _Runaan_ , who _never_ listens and doesn’t _believe_ her—

She wraps her arms around her legs and buries her face in her knees.

She’s cold, but it feels good. Refreshing. Better than that alien house, stifling with all the tension that’s built up over the past few weeks. Though she’s out of the biting wind, little eddies stir her hair and bite at her ears. She flexes her toes inside her wet socks, trying to keep some semblance of feeling in them. That really had been stupid, running out with no shoes. Or coat. Or gloves, or scarf, or hat.

Winter clothes. That’s something else she has to get used to.

She chants slowly in her head, the way her Da taught her, until her breaths come a little easier and don’t threaten to break the dam behind her eyes each time.

Tears effectively thwarted for the moment, she looks up. She knows it’s late afternoon, but it’s cloudy, and she can’t honestly tell if it’s any darker than it had been. There’s a dreary sameness to the forest all around her, all dead and brown with only the occasional slushy remnant of the mostly-melted snowfall from earlier that week.

Shivering, rubbing her arms through her thin shirt sleeves, she realizes she had no idea where she is. She hadn’t exactly been paying attention when she’d run out.

Well. Just sitting here isn’t going to help anything. She climbs out of the hollow tree, a little clumsier than she’d prefer due to her cold fingers. She bounces on the balls of her feet, breath misting in the air in front of her. There—that way. A long break in the trees, the distant rumble of a car. That’s a start.

She’s not going to have time now to wrap the presents she’d gotten for her uncles on that last half-hearted shopping trip. Whatever.

She makes her way through the undergrowth, placing her feet carefully to avoid slush and mud and sharp sticks when she can. At least the wind has died down. By the time she reaches the road, the car is long gone, and there’s no sign of life when she peers up the road. She looks the other way, and at first all looks still, but then a solitary figure catches her eye.

He’s about her height, maybe a little shorter, with a mop of brown hair and wrapped in a red scarf clearly too big for him. There’s a sprig of holly in his arms, with a clumsily wrapped brown paper package balanced on top. He looks kind of like a Christmas elf, especially with the giant pom-pom on top of his hat, if Christmas elves could be lanky and disheveled and runny-nosed. Rayla watches, intrigued, as he trudges down the road with his odd load. It appears bulky enough to give him some trouble. He hasn’t spotted her; he’s intent on something, brow furrowed and eyes fixed on the ground in front of him.

A car driving fast enough to be considered reckless, far too close to the edge of the road, careens around the bend. Horrified, Rayla is frozen for a few precious seconds, then screams a warning. The boy, startled, jumps back, which probably saves his life—but trips on the uneven shoulder, sending both him and his load tumbling into a sludgebank.

Rayla yells a Very Rude Phrase she’d learned from her mum (for which Runaan would’ve washed her mouth out with soap if he’d heard) at the car, already vanished into to the heavy dusk. Cold feet forgotten, she races across the road to the boy, who’s now sitting up and shaking slush out of his unruly hair. “Are you okay?”

Taken aback, he looks up at her with wide eyes the deepest green she’s ever seen. “I . . . I think so?” he says a little doubtfully, resuming patting himself down and brushing himself off. “I might’ve gotten a little bruised.”

Rayla offers him her hand, and he takes it after a brief hesitation. “At least you’re better off than your package,” she says as she helps pull him to his feet.

His face twists as his gaze lands on the ruined package, the wet paper torn and its contents strewn all over. “Oh no! Mom’s jelly tarts!” He drops back down to his knees, hastily gathering what Rayla can now tell are some sort of baked goods back into the ruined bag. She kneels next to him to help, but the paper only tears more with each jelly tart.

Eventually they both give up their futile efforts and sit back. The boy bites his lip, clearly trying not to cry. Which, fair. He seems to be having an even rougher day than she is, what with almost dying and getting dumped in a slushy pile-puddle and all. She’s selfishly satisfied for a moment—misery loves company, after all—then pushes it down under a resurgence of shame.

“Well,” Rayla says, peering into the package, “some of the—tarts?—at the bottom didn’t fall out, and they look okay. Can I see your hat?”

He looks at her, bemused, but takes off his hat and hands it to her. Rayla pulls out several of the less-wet-and-gross-looking tarts from the bottom of the package and stuff them in his hat, then hands it back to him. “Most of them are pretty smushed, and some of them got a wee bit wet, but these are okay I think. Will your mum mind?”

“…No,” the boy says after a pause. “She won’t mind at all.” He doesn’t sound any less dejected, though.

With a mental shrug—there’s only so much she can do—Rayla stands and retrieves the holly where it had been thrown a few feet away. With a hearty shake and a few wipes from her sleeve, much of the muck is dispelled. “There! At least this is good as new!”

“Thanks for your help,” the boy says. He glances between his armful of pastries and the hefty sprig of holly, brow furrowed.

There’s a pregnant pause. “If you don’t mind company,” Rayla says, somewhat awkwardly, “I could carry this for you while you carry the jelly tarts? Less likely another unfortunate incident will happen, that way,” she adds.

His eyes meet hers. There’s a something torn deep within them, and without his hat and its ridiculous pom-pom, he looks almost like some otherworldly prince, and Rayla half-wonders if offering her services is a good idea. Then he smiles slowly, and the aura dissipates.

“Yeah,” he says. “I could really use someone, I think.”

Rayla thinks that’s an interesting way to phrase it. “Lead the way,” she says.

xXx

_I have walked too long in darkness_

_I have walked too long alone_

_Blindly clutching fists of diamonds_

_That I found were only stones_

As they resume Callum’s route down the road, snow begins to fall. Ezran will be ecstatic, Callum knows; his little brother really wants a white Christmas. It had only snowed once so far this year, and had immediately begun to melt afterwards into the piles of slush like the one he’d fallen into. With only a few hours left, even the ever-optimistic seven-year-old had begun to lose hope.

However, it does raise Callum’s concerns for the kind stranger—Rayla, she’d said when he asked, though she’d given him a funny look for some reason—who’d stopped to help him. She’s wearing nothing but a long-sleeved t-shirt, leggings, and socks. No coat, gloves, not even _shoes_. But she doesn’t seem overtly bothered, as if bodily concerns have no hold on her.

(They definitely are bothering him, though. He’s definitely got sludge-turning-into-water in his boots, and his jeans are starting to chafe.)

He doesn’t think he’d have been able to continue on if it hadn’t been for her. 

He’d already been second guessing the wisdom of his errand. Maybe his stepdad was right, and it didn’t matter whether they went that day or the next, it’s the thought that counts—but he couldn’t explain how desperate he felt about it, how this was something he _had_ to do, because it was the only thing he _could_ do anymore. And clearly he had been too lost in his own head. He hadn’t noticed the car until it was literally almost on top of him, and then he was butt-first in a puddle-pile of slush.

And then she’d run into the road out of nowhere, shaking her fists and yelling after the car like an avenging, mud-splattered angel, pale hair whipping across her face. She’d gently but bluntly brought him out of his funk and helped him get back up and on his quest when he couldn’t make his stupid sluggish brain work.

He wasn’t sure how he was going to break it to her where exactly they were going. So he probably wouldn’t, and then once she figured it out she’d high-tail it out of there, and leave him in the company of only his not-great head again.

“How far to your mum’s?” Rayla asks in her peculiar accent, one he’s never heard before. He wonders at it, but it seems rude to ask.

“Not too much farther,” Callum says. “The turn is up between that pair of oak trees.” He really hopes the groundskeepers won’t have closed the gates yet. He glances up at the sky. It’s hard to tell with the clouds, but though it’s getting darker, it’s not quite dark enough for the sun to have gone down, right?

He shouldn’t have gone out this late. That hadn’t been the original plan, of course; the usual plan included his stepfather driving him and Ezran out to visit their mom, like they did for Christmas Eve every year. He’d gotten more and more antsy as the day went on, as the afternoon came and went, until Harrow pulled him aside to regretfully tell him they wouldn’t be able to make it out that day. “We can go first thing tomorrow morning, if you boys want,” Harrow had offered.

But Callum hadn’t accepted that. He was going to bring her that drawing in time for the long night, come wintery hell or high sludgy water.

…Though, in hindsight, he probably should have left a note.

They approach the pair of oaks, which stand out from the surrounding trees due to their girth and height. To Callum’s relief, the gates are still open. The imposing wrought-iron look even more forlorn than usual with the snow piling on it.

“Nice, uh, place,” Rayla says finally.

Callum shrugs. “It’s not hers. This is just…where she is.” He can just see Rayla’s confused, weirded-out stare in the corner of his eye, but he deliberately avoids looking at her. “I, uh. Can take it from here. Not likely to be any cars coming this way.”

Rayla wrinkles her nose as she surveys the dark grounds. “No, I think I’ll see you there. I’ve come this far. Besides,” she adds with a smirk, “maybe your mum will share the jelly tarts.”

Callum lets out a hollow chuckle. Steeling himself, he steps through the gates.

xXx

This little adventure was definitely getting weirder, but Rayla either doesn’t want to leave the kid on his own in the dark woods or maybe doesn’t want to break her promise for fear of repercussion. She’s honestly not quite sure which it is.

A light dusting of snow now blankets the world, but the grounds are still dark and ominous. There aren’t birds about, and the wind had died down so that even the trees are still, branches drooping under the growing weight of the snow, looking for all the world like broken-down souls. A blue dimness has settled over the world, and the snowfall seems to muffle everything.

No, not ominous. Sad. Grieving.

The trees are more spread out here. Separate little paths break off from the main one they’re on, disappearing into the trees. Rayla catches a glimpse at one point of a slim stone house, but only barely, as it doesn’t seem to have any lights on. But the kid—Callum—keeps going.

“Does…your mum know you’re coming?” Rayla asks hesitantly.

“Oh, she’s expecting me,” Callum says. “We always visit today.” His arms tighten around the hatful of jelly tarts. “But she’s probably wondering why I’m so late,” he adds, more quietly.

He pauses at one of the smaller paths, thinking, then shakes his head. “No, it’s the next one. Sorry,” he adds to Rayla. “It’s usually a lot lighter when I come.”

They take the next turn-off, following the narrow path deeper into the forest. A soft breeze picks up, bringing with it a slight ringing somewhere above their heads. The water at the ends of the branches had frozen, creating a glittery crystalline tunnel above them that clink when the branches brush together. Awed, Rayla slows to take it in, half wondering if they’ll come out the other side in fairyland. She rushes to catch up to Callum when she realizes he hasn’t stopped.

She’s a half-step behind when the trail opens into a clearing. At the far end is another skinny house; Rayla squints, but at this distance she can’t make out the details in the darkness. There’s no light coming from it though, so it doesn’t look like anyone’s home. She’s about to turn to ask Callum about it, but then the clouds part.

Moonlight spills into the world like a sigh. The snow, now at least an inch thick on the ground, reflects the light enough to illuminate the structures in the clearing. The little house, now clearly made of gleaming marble, has imposing-looking double doors for such a small building, and no windows. But before Rayla can process what it is, the other structure in the clearing makes her forget everything else.

Set back to the left of the path, halfway between them and the marble building, is a gorgeous life-sized statue of a woman on horseback atop a thick concrete block. She’s looking down, and her gently smiling face is kind, even if the rest of her is imposing. Her far hand holds a spear upright, but her near one is reaching down, following her line of sight. Rayla finds herself at the base of the statue without realizing how. She glances at the horse’s hooves. Two are raised.

Death in battle.

That’s not a house. It’s a mausoleum.

She whips around to face Callum. He’s still beside her, but he’s gazing up at the statue, and this time there _are_ tears trailing down his face.

“Hi, Mom,” he whispers, and Rayla’s heart _shatters._

xXx

Relief washes over Callum like the moonlight, so powerful he could cry—and probably is, if the warm wetness on his cheeks is any indication. But he’s not embarrassed to be crying in front of a girl he barely knows, because he’s here and it’s _right_. He made it. His mom won’t be alone tonight.

He sets the hat down on the concrete block, propped up against one of the horse’s hooves. “We made persimmon this time,” he says to his mom. “They’re Ez’s newest favorite. They kinda got…jostled around in transit though,” he adds, glancing back at Rayla, but quickly looks away when he sees the look on her face.

He pulls out one of the tarts, then pauses. Harrow usually helps with this part.

A hand settles gently on his shoulder. He lets out a weak laugh. “Sorry. It’s silly. We always put a jelly tart in her hand, but my stepdad has to lift one of us up to reach, obviously.”

Rayla looks up at the statue and tilts her head, considering. “Well, I don’t think I can do _that_ , but…” She hands Callum the holly, and before he can even get out a noise of surprise, she reaches up to grasp a hoof and somehow _flips_ herself up onto the block like she’s made of nothing but air. And then she’s looking down at him, face red from the cold, lavender eyes bright with laughter, snow in her tangled hair, and maybe there is some magic left in the world after all.

He hands her the jelly tart when she reaches for it. She places it in the statue’s hand. “Here you go, uh, Callum’s mom,” she says to the statue, a little awkwardly, but Callum’s heart swells. “You’ve certainly got one determined son, here.”

“Oh!” Callum knocks his palm against his forehead. “I should introduce you! Rayla, this is my mom. Well, actually, technically you’re on top of her,” he adds, enjoying the look of alarm that crosses her face. “Mom, this is Rayla. I wouldn’t have made it here without her.” He reaches into his coat and pulls out the folded paper from the inside pocket, which, miraculously, escaped the whole sludge-puddle debacle unscathed. He unfolds the drawing and places it next to the hat of jelly tarts, then wraps the sprig of holly around the bunch to complete the arrangement. “And here’s our family, so you won’t be alone tonight. You wouldn’t believe how poofy Ez’s hair is getting.”

Rayla studies the drawing for a moment, impressed, before sitting and swinging her legs over the side of the block. Callum automatically offers her a hand, which she accepts, and he’s alarmed he can feel how cold it is through his glove.

“Your hands are _freezing_!” he exclaims as he helps her jump back down.

“Well, yeah,” she says, “but your gloves are wet!” She glances him up and down, frowning. “And so’s the rest of you! I didn’t even think of that! You got dumped in a slushbank!”

“ _I_ might be all wet, but at least I’ve got several layers on. _You’re_ not even wearing _shoes_!” Callum points out. “What were you _thinking_ when you left your house today?”

Rayla shrinks in on herself. “I wasn’t, really,” she mutters. “It wasn’t exactly my finest moment.”

Callum frowns at her, but untangles his scarf from his neck and wraps it around her instead. “Here. This didn’t get very wet, and it’s better than nothing.” She makes a noise of protest, but it’s half-hearted, and doesn’t fight when he pulls her down to sit on the dry spot of ground right by the statue’s base.

“Okay, spill,” he says, because something’s clearly bothering her. But she doesn’t answer right away, and he’s afraid maybe he’s pushed too far.

xXx

“I…got into an argument with my uncle,” she says at last. “Things have been…tense, since I came to live with him and his husband a few weeks ago, and it finally boiled over today. I yelled at him, said some things I shouldn’t have. Not that that makes them any less true.” She let out a shuddering breath. “I love my uncles. I _do._ I just…I want my mom and dad.” She cuts herself off, shakes her head to clear it. “I’m so sorry. You don’t need to hear this.”

“But you need to say it,” Callum says gently, “and I can listen. It’s the least I can do, after all your help.”

She shakes her head again. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear about how I miss my still-alive parents.”

“Rayla, look.” Callum shifts, uncertain, but then seems to come to a decision and places a hand on her knee. “We like, _just_ met, but even I can tell this is eating at you. Believe me, I know how bad it can get when you keep it all in. And sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone you don’t know.”

Rayla looks at him then, his open, caring face, his slush-soaked jacket, offering to listen to a stranger’s problems while literally sitting under his mother’s grave—

And yeah, maybe it’s not fair, but _none_ of this is fair, and he’s offering, and she doesn’t have the strength at the moment to refuse someone who will finally _listen_ to her—

“I miss them,” she says, the words tumbling out. “And I can’t—they were in the reserves, both of them, they have been since I was born because of the money benefits or something—but then all that crap overseas happened last month, and then Mum got a call, and then _Da_ got a call, and then suddenly I’m on the complete other side of the continent with only what would fit in a carry-on and my backpack. And I’ve never been here before, my uncles always came to visit _us_ , and I don’t know anyone and the other kids all think that I’m weird and that I talk funny. And yeah, they’re mean but I shouldn’t have gone after them like that, but they won’t leave me alone unless I punch them in their stupid smug faces. And—” she hiccups, gods, how pathetic she sounds—“and my parents, they’re both really, really good at what they do so it’s all super top secret, so I have no idea where they are, or if they’re even together, and it’s _Christmas_ , and they could be in danger every moment, and I could quite possibly never see them again, and I _can’t do anything about it_ , I can’t do anything but sit and pretend everything’s fine and wrap presents and sing stupid holiday carols—I can’t _do anything—_ ”

And just like that, the words are gone, out of her head into the cold air as if they were the mist on her breath, and her chest feels lighter than it has since that first phone call. The feelings are still there, but they’re _outside_ her now too, they don’t feel as stuck, and he was right—somehow that’s a little better.

“Rayla,” Callum says quietly. “That’s awful.” But he doesn’t say he’s sorry, and she’s grateful for it.

xXx

Callum watches as Rayla dries her eyes with his scarf. He’s still worried about her out in the cold, but he’s less worried about her as a whole now.

His heart aches just looking at her. She’d been going through all that, had all that inside, and yet stopped to help a total stranger complete his silly errand in the middle of nowhere, despite not being adequately dressed for it to boot. And he supposes there’s something concerning about that last part, but he’s still selfishly glad she did.

She sniffs, then gives him a watery smile. “Okay, your turn, sad prince,” she says. “I suppose it might be a little insensitive to ask, but I did help, and I really gotta know—don’t get me wrong, it’s super sweet, but why is it so important to bring your mum jelly tarts that you trudged all the way out here, on Christmas Eve, _by yourself_ , to bring them?”

Callum’s face would be burning if it wasn’t already red from the cold. “Well, we usually all come together, my stepdad and my little brother and my aunt if she can make it. We visit all through the year, of course, but today it’s especially important. But Harrow had something come up today—he’s a judge, I think it was trial related or something—and eventually he had to break it to us that he wasn’t going to have time to take us today.” Callum bites his lip. “I couldn’t make him understand—it doesn’t mean the same, to him, and I couldn’t bring Ezran, he doesn’t quite understand it yet and I didn’t want to get him in trouble.” Because he himself is _definitely_ going to be.

He hops up to pull out a few tarts from his hat before dropping back down next to Rayla. They were a bit smushed, and cold, but he hands her one anyway. She looks at him, unsure, but he nods encouragingly and she takes it. “Jelly tarts were her favorite dessert, and growing up it was always a family tradition to bake them together on Christmas Eve,” he continues as they munch on the treats. “But the more important part is bringing a photo or a drawing of all of us from sometime during the year.”

“So she won’t be alone, you said.”

“Yeah.” Callum hugs his knees. “That part of the story would probably hit a little close to home for you, though.”

“I thought I established I’m about as far away from home as possible,” Rayla says dryly. “And I know. She died in battle.”

Callum stares at her, slightly awed, but she just rolls her eyes and snorts. “The horse’s hooves, dummy. Two are raised.”

“Oh. Right.” Feeling silly, Callum shakes his head. “She was a commander in the Royal Calvary, before it was disbanded. It…it was the battle they disbanded it after, actually.” He swallows. “They didn’t…they didn’t find her until the next morning. Her horse had been killed, and she’d been trapped underneath it, and she wasn’t…she wasn’t able to get out.” His voice cracks. “I don’t know how long she was there. How long she waited. All alone, on Christmas Eve, before…” He shakes his head. “It’s stupid, I know. This won’t make it better. It doesn’t matter now.”

“It’s not stupid,” Rayla says. “It matters, because it matters to you.” She smiles gently. “And I’m sure it matters to her, too, still.”

He looks at her, and doesn’t know what to say. But he thinks his face says it for him.

xXx

The perks of being a sheriff include not having to work Christmas Eve, at least usually. But when there’s a missing kid, all those rules go out the window. Not that Amaya would be able to kick back and relax when there’s a missing child out there anyway.

She’d been just about to head over to her brother-in-law’s for dinner when she got the call. She’d gone to the station to jump in on the interview with the girl’s guardians—her uncles, apparently, who she’d been living with for only a few weeks—and as soon as they were finished, they get another call that turns her deputy Gren’s face to ash.

Another missing kid. And not only that, but one of Amaya’s own nephews, whom she was supposed to be spending that very evening with.

Technically, Amaya isn’t supposed to be involved in a case involving her own family. But as the sheriff she would end up being involved in some capacity anyway, and after interviewing Harrow and several of the house staff, she has a hunch. She assigns Corvus and Soren to begin the search around where the missing girl was last seen, and she and Gren head out to the cemetery.

They climb out of the car just outside the gates, Amaya signing a hurried explanation to Gren. The groundskeeper, who Gren had called on the way, is already unlocking the gates. The man stutters apologies as he works, which Amaya waves away impatiently, not even bothering to read his lips. Sweeping their flashlights, she and Gren hurry onto the grounds.

The snow had stopped and the sky had cleared a while ago. The gibbous moon paints a serene, if desolate, winter wonderland. But to Amaya, the most beautiful aspect of the scene is a pair of footprints roughly the size of a twelve-year-old boy’s making their way clearly down the main path. Next to them, though, is a pair of smaller footprints.

Amaya exchanges a glance with her deputy. Ezran wasn’t missing.

With renewed haste, the pair hurry down the trail as fast as safely possible, Amaya glancing at Gren every so often to make sure he’s calling for Callum. They break into the clearing, Sarai’s snow-covered statue nearly taking Amaya’s breath away in the moonlight—until she sees the figures huddled at the base of the statue.

Callum and the girl next to him look up, blinking in the harsh light of the flashlights. They’re huddled together for warmth, the girl wrapped in Callum’s red scarf.

Amaya shoves her flashlight at Gren and advances, relief in every line of her body but scolding Callum as fast as her hands can move.

Looking sheepish, he fumbles through a few signs before giving up. “Sorry,” he says, “my fingers are too cold. Even with the gloves.”

Amaya raises an eyebrow and asks how long he’d been out here.

“Not that long,” he says defensively. “It’s probably just ‘cause they’re wet.” Then he winces, realizing what he’s admitted.

Amaya’s eyes narrow, and she pauses her tirade to feel his clothes. Idiot boy. She asks acidly if his friend is wet too, and gives her a quick glance, but she’s not going to pat down a kid who doesn’t know her. Callum denies she is.

Amaya glances back at Gren, who already has his phone out, and signs for him to call the paramedics. He nods, then gestures to the girl, and tells her he’ll call Corvus and Soren too.

Frowning, Amaya looks back at Callum’s friend. Her face is hard and her eyes wary, Callum’s scarf wrapped around her as a shawl, but it’s definitely the girl from the photos the couple had provided.

Callum tugs on her sleeve and she turns to him. “Aunt Amaya, this is Rayla,” he says. “Do you or Gren have an extra coat? She doesn’t have one.”

Startled, Amaya takes closer look at the girl. Now that she’s looking, she can tell there’s no jacket under the scarf wrapped around her. And she’s also not wearing any shoes.

Amaya rubs a hand across her face. At least they’re safe.

xXx

“Well, this will certainly be a Christmas to remember,” Harrow says, offering a mug of hot chocolate.

Runaan barks out a tired laugh. “Something like that.” He shakes his head at the mug. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

“You sure?” Harrow wiggles his eyebrows. “It’s got the good stuff in it.”

Runaan relents, and ends up being glad for it.

They stand in the doorway and watch the hubbub in Harrow’s living room, all partakers sprawled on the plush rug in front of the fire roaring in the frankly enormous hearth. It’s laughably late, and they really should be shooing the kids off to bed, but none of the adults have the heart for it. Ethari has Ezran in his lap, the two of them tag-teaming a story about a bumbling snowman that gets more ridiculous with each line. Rayla and Callum, bundled up in fuzzy jammies and thick blankets, are trying to outdo each other with witty questions and comments on the story. Rayla has her arms around Bait, the boys’ (but mostly Ez’s) bulldog, whose tail is thumping ever so slightly despite his grumpy façade. Sitting on the coffee table is a now half-empty tray of replacement jelly tarts that Ezran had helped the chef bake while waiting for news about his brother, and scattered over the room are half-forgotten mugs of hot chocolate (without the good stuff).

“Thank you for inviting us over,” Runaan says. “I don’t think we would have had a very festive celebration on our own after all this, though Ethari would have tried his best.” Frankly, Runaan had been caught off guard by the invitation and had been hesitant to accept, considering he and Harrow did not…get along professionally. But in the end, with the help of Rayla’s puppy dog eyes—they still made his heart melt as easily now as when she was three—he’d agreed. He was still furious, of course, but that could wait.

Harrow waves a hand. “Absolutely no trouble. We have enough extra rooms, and the more the merrier, as they say—tonight of all nights, I would imagine.” He sobers. “And we have staff who can check on them throughout the night, like the doctors wanted.”

Being told by Officers Soren and Corvus that they were needed at the children’s hospital had been one of the most terrifying moments of Runaan and Ethari’s lives. But Rayla and her new friend had gotten off relatively easy. There was no evidence of frostbite, they were only mildly dehydrated, and no fever or cough in either of them—though they were warned to watch for those last two over the next day or so. The staff had done a very thorough but quick assessment; they generally wanted their patients home for Christmas when at all possible.

“Honestly, though I certainly wish it had happened differently…I think it was a good thing, that they found each other.” Harrow’s looking in the direction of Callum, but his eyes are far away.

“Agreed,” Runaan says. “Rayla has been…so lost since she came here.” He sips his drink, watching the brightest smile he’d seen in weeks light up Rayla’s face as Callum gets twisted up in his blankets trying to wrestle Bait from her.

Amaya joins them soon after, once the paperwork is finished, and brings a new life to the party that makes sure none of them will get to bed anytime soon. But no one really minds, and outside the snow has picked up again, and in a clearing in the woods not too far away a drawing of a family flutters in the wind but never quite leaves the sightline of a statued horsewoman, and much farther away across an ocean a pair of special operatives clutch a locket around the female partner’s neck and whisper _Merry Christmas_ to each other and to their daughter.

_So take my hand, lift me higher_

_Be my love and my desire_

_Hold me safe and honor bound_

_Take my heart to higher ground_

xXx

**Author's Note:**

> Song title and lyrics in the story are from the song "Higher Ground" as sung by Robert and Robin Kochis. I haven't been able to find it on spotify or youtube, but though I haven't listened to it, I know Vanessa Williams sings the same version and her might be there.
> 
> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, everyone! :)


End file.
